


Midnight Clear

by Avery11



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Christmas, DtC2015, Gen, Jerusalem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:28:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5420585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A last-minute assignment in the Middle East puts a wrench in Napoleon and Illya's holiday plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Clear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akane42me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/gifts).



 

   ****

 

 The sky was clear over Jerusalem, and the desert night had turned cold. From their vantage point on a hill overlooking the city, Napoleon and Illya drew their jackets about them, and settled in for what promised to be a very long stakeout. It was Christmas Eve, and they were far from home.

“Not exactly the way I wanted to spend the holidays,” Napoleon sighed. He raised his binoculars and scanned the cobbled streets of the Old City for signs of trouble.

Illya sat beside him, peeling an orange. He bit into the sweet fruit with relish. “Alas, with THRUSH on the move in the region, I fear you must do without your usual overdose of Christmas cheer.”

“ – again.”

“Pardon?”

“In case you haven't noticed, this is the third year in a row we've been called away on assignment over the holidays. Just once, I'd like to make it home for Christmas.” He sighed again.

“Feeling sorry for ourselves, are we?”

“A little, I guess. I keep telling myself that the sand dunes are really snow drifts, and the olive trees are, in actuality, double-needled scotch pines."

"Is it working?"

"Not one bit. The truth is, I'd give anything to be heading home to New York right now. I miss my family. Aunt Amy's not getting any younger, you know.”

“Oh, please. That woman will outlive us both.”

Napoleon pictured his irascible aunt at the dining room table, surrounded by a mountain of last-minute presents in need of wrapping. He smiled at the memory. “And then there's my sisters. I hardly ever get to see Hippolyta anymore, now that she's snagged the new job in Brussels.”

“Is she still dating whatshisname – that Sergio fellow with the muscles and the shiny Italian sports car?”

“Yesterday's news. The boyfriend of the moment is a computer whiz named Walter. Quite a change for her, but she sounds happy.” Napoleon rolled his neck to ease the tension in his shoulders, and trained his binoculars on the Moslem Quarter with its complex warren of arched alleyways. “Incidentally, did I tell you Artemesia's pregnant?”

“What, again?”

“Number three. It seems my rebellious little sister has discovered her maternal gene.”

“Let us hope she discovers a talent for discipline as well. The first two are already little hellions-in-training.”

“No surprise, with their Uncle Illya inciting them to mischief. 'Target Practice With Strained Peaches' is a game destined to end badly.” Napoleon sighed for the third time in as many minutes. “I really do miss them.”

“This is not the first time we have been posted to the ends of the earth on Christmas Eve,” Illya reminded him gently. “Nor is it likely to be the last.”

“The demands of the job, yeah.” He took a sip of tepid coffee, grimacing at the bitterness.

Throughout the city, Midnight Mass was getting underway. Napoleon watched the last few stragglers dart into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The faint sound of a choir singing _Silent Night_ drifted toward them on the evening breeze.

To the east, a winding path led to the Temple Mount, its archetypal Dome of the Rock shining like burnished gold under a panoply of stars. Beside it, illuminated by a single spotlight, stood the Wailing Wall, last vestige of the ancient city of David. The Kidron Valley with its lush groves of olive trees lay just beyond the Eastern Gate, and to the west, the town of Hebron, resting place of the patriarch Abraham. To the south, King David's Tower rose defiantly into the night.

“Jerusalem really is a beautiful city,” Napoleon admitted. “It's easy to see why so many faiths consider it a holy place.”

“Beautiful – and contentious,” Illya replied. He took a savage bite of his orange. “Too many battles have been fought over this land, and far too many people have died for it. And now, with THRUSH mounting a power play in the region –”

“The various factions were at odds with one another long before THRUSH came along.”

“Undoubtedly, but our feathered friends are relentlessly opportunistic. Foment a climate of sectarian conflict and mistrust, destroy the fragile peace before it can take hold, and their nefarious organization can simply walk in and reap the spoils.”

“'Nefarious organization?' Tell me you didn't actually  _say_  that!”

Illya scowled. “Laugh if you will, but I have seen it before, too many times. The diplomats posture and make empty promises while the innocent are left to suffer.”

Napoleon's eyes softened. “Jerusalem is not Kiev.”

“Isn't it?”

“Trust takes time,  _tovarisch_. The tribes in this region have been fighting one another for a thousand years.”

“And that is an excuse to go on slaughtering one's neighbors?”

“Old suspicions die hard. Did  _we_  trust one another when we met?”

It was Illya's turn to sigh. He tossed the remains of his orange into a clump of honeysuckle, startling a scorpion hidden beneath its thick vines. It scuttled away, leaving a line of tiny tracks in the sand. The men fell silent, contemplating the fate of the troubled city below. The ancient stars passed slowly overhead, luminous in their unconcern.

A church bell rang, breaking the silence. Another. Suddenly, all the bells were ringing, a glorious, clanging polyphony, as though the voice of every bell in the city had been set free. Their songs tolled forth in joyful abandon, filling the air with their celebration.

“Midnight,” Napoleon remarked softly. “It's Christmas.”

As the bells continued to chime, Illya reached into his knapsack. He withdrew an oddly-shaped package wrapped in newsprint and tied with a piece of twine. “Happy Christmas, Napoleon.”

The senior agent looked up in surprise. “A Christmas present? For me?”

“I ordered it some weeks ago and, in a stroke of good fortune, picked it up on the way to work yesterday, just before Waverly called us in." He shrugged. "I admit, the presentation leaves much to be desired, but -"

Napoleon's heart warmed at the sight of the crudely wrapped parcel. "I'm afraid your present is still sitting under the tree in my apartment. With our flight leaving, there wasn't time to run home and get it."

"Then I will have something to look forward to when we get back." He gestured at the package. "Aren't you going to open it?"

Napoleon hefted the object; tested its weight. “Hmm, heavy. I'm guessing it's not a tie.”

“That would be superfluous. You already own enough neckwear to dress all of UNCLE Northeast.”

“Says the man with one skinny black tie to his name." He examined the parcel, turning it over and over in his hands. It made a sloshing sound. “Is it a bottle of Glenfiddich?” His eyes lit up hopefully. 

“Och _,_ _nyet._ ”

“Too bad. Hmm. So, not a tie, and not a bottle of scotch. Cologne? A bottle of  _Eau Sauvage,_  maybe?”

"Wrong again." Illya yawned. "Is this going to take long? We  _are_ on a stakeout, you know." 

"Patience, my fine Russian friend. I'm just getting started." He put the parcel to his ear and shook it.

"Careful!"

"Why? It's not a vial of nitroglycerin, is it?”

Illya's blue eyes twinkled with mirth. “Shake it again, and we may both find out."

"A reassuring thought." 

"Or you could open it –”

“That would take all the fun out of guessing." He checked the wrapping paper for clues. Nothing, just some yellowed pages from an Israeli newspaper, a local daily called the  _Kol Ha'ir._  "And you say you had to special-order it?"

"Everything I can afford to buy, you already own. It was necessary to improvise."

"Improvise? An unusual present, then." Napoleon thought some more. "Is it a bottle of that awful Russian vodka you drink? What's it called - _Soyuz_ something? You'd have to order that through the Soviet Embassy." 

" _Soyuz-Viktan_ , and no, it is not." 

"I don't know how you can bear to drink that stuff anyway. It's vile enough to strip the paint off the DeLorean. Hell, it'd probably melt the polar ice cap."

"I will be sure to bring some along if we are ever posted to the Arctic Circle." Illya cocked his head. "Your deductive powers are slipping, my friend. I expected you to have worked it out before now."

"Patience. The night, as they say, is young." Napoleon examined the package again. Nothing. "It's not one of those vile gypsy remedies you're always concocting, is it? I had to fumigate my apartment after the last one."

"It cured your hangover."

"And annihilated most of the flora in my digestive tract, thank you very much." He sighed. "Am I getting warm?”

“Colder than a Siberian winter. At this rate, we will be here until Memorial Day - although I confess, I am happy to see you so thoroughly entertained."

"Thoroughly stumped, you mean."

"Po- _tay_ -to, po- _tah_ -to. Uncle?"

"Not a chance!" Napoleon wracked his brain. "A lava lamp? Norwegian cocoa? Swedish egg nog?” He was grasping at straws, and he knew it. 

“No, no, and no." Illya smothered a grin. 

With a sigh – he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately – Napoleon untied the twine and folded back the thick wad of newsprint.

Nestled amid the pages of an Israeli newspaper _,_ with its daily reports of war and death and destruction, was a snow globe set upon an ornately carved wooden pedestal. Under the glass dome, miniature skaters waltzed and spun on an icy lake, surrounded by a forest of skyscrapers. A horse and carriage trotted across a snow-covered bridge, its occupants waving gaily to a group of children building a snowman.

"It looks just like Central Park!" Napoleon exclaimed in delight. 

“Not just Central Park. It's the view from Aunt Amy's penthouse." Illya leaned forward eagerly. "See? There is the Wollman Rink, and Bow Bridge, and the Empire State Building in the distance -” 

Napoleon shook the globe, and watched the flakes of glitter-snow swirl. "It's perfect, Illya. Thank you."

“It plays music, too.” He indicated the key at the base of the snow globe.

Napoleon wound the mechanism, and listened as a tinkling tune began to play.  _'Dashing through the snow, in a one-horse open sleigh...'_

They laid back, sharing the oranges from Illya's knapsack, and watching the moon rise over the Kidron Valley. Above them, a carpet of stars glittered in an endless sky. Napoleon rewound the snow globe's mechanism again and again, humming along as the tune spilled forth. 

Throughout Jerusalem, the churches were emptying, worshipers greeting one another as they strolled home along the  _Via Dolorosa._  One by one the bells fell silent. The desert grew still. 

“A beautiful night,” Napoleon murmured, gazing down upon the sleeping city.  "I wonder if this is what Peace on Earth feels like?" 

"Perhaps we will find out one day," Illya replied softly, "assuming we manage to live long enough."

In the darkness, Napoleon smiled. "Merry Christmas, _tovarisch_."

"Happy Christmas, my friend."

*/*/*/

 


End file.
